


Threnodies 5:1 in Translation

by runningondreams



Series: Stumbling, Fumbling, Falling [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: First Kisses, Fluff, M/M, tent kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian hates camping, Sera has no sense of boundaries, and the Inquisitor's only response is to rearrange the watch schedule. As if that's going to accomplish anything at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threnodies 5:1 in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> The in-game first kiss options didn't quite work with my headcanons, so here, have some gratuitous kissing.

It takes the sight of delicately embroidered flowers and halla horns on the bedroll next to his for Dorian to realize that this new arrangement means he and the Inquisitor will be sharing a tent tonight. Not actually sharing blankets or anything of course, and there's no reason for it to be any different from sharing sleeping space with Cassandra or Sera beyond the lack of physical and metaphorical spikes at his back, respectively, except that of _course_ it's different. There's that … thing, between them. A charge in the air that he's almost entirely certain isn't a one-sided fantasy on his part. 

If Lavellan has any inkling of the potential danger inherent to this arrangement, he doesn't show it. He goes about his evening routine same as every night—checking over his armor and staff, padding around barefoot as if there aren't a thousand sharp stones on the ground waiting to draw blood, pouring over Arencia's _Botanical Compendium_ by flickering firelight. When he finally does head off to bed he simply closes his book and nods at Dorian in passing on his way to the tent.

Cassandra abandons him at the fireside soon after and he stands with a sigh. The wards will tell him if anything malevolent gets close but they can't protect from archers, and they won't trip for overly-curious bears either. Besides, walking will keep him warm. 

The nights are long in the hills. By the end of his watch—uneventful, dark, windy—he's grateful to crawl into the tent and shake Lavellan awake. Not that it takes much. The Inquisitor just might be the lightest sleeper Dorian's ever had to wake. Of course, once Lavellan's up and off to start his own walk in the dark, the faint glow of the anchor is gone and Dorian's left to summon mage light or search out his appointments in pitch blackness. He's tired. It's not worth the effort. He fumbles off his outer layers and crawls under the scratchy wool blanket he still hasn't gotten around to replacing and tells himself it doesn't matter that everything smells of elfroot and embrium, it doesn't matter that there's nothing to stop him rolling over and watching Lavellan wake up in the morning, nothing is going to happen because for all their flirting, for all the slow appraisals and curling smiles and teasing touches, they still argue as often as they agree, and Lavellan's silences are colder than the mountains, and the man has a family running around in a forest somewhere and probably has never even so much as actually kissed a member of his own sex before. 

Dorian should just forget the whole thing while he still can, before he finds himself chest-deep and foundering in the swell of his own emotions yet again.

He closes his eyes against the darkness and quiets his spinning thoughts. Relaxes the muscles in his face, his shoulders, his hips, and reaches for that inner quiet that goes with the deeper magics, ritual and power from the land itself. That steadiness has always been calming, and it takes only time to loose his mind from his limbs and follow the glimmering lure of his dreams, winding through the Fade.

He sleeps.

He wakes warm, warmer than he expected to, and after moment of comfortable luxury he realizes this is because there's a long arm slung over his ribs and a lean body curled into him, toes pressing into the tops of his feet where their legs are tangled.

Lavellan. Dorian's willing to wager he's still asleep. 

So much for nothing happening. 

He has to remind himself to breathe as he opens his eyes, every instinct telling him to move slowly, deliberately, anything to avoid startling the wild being that's found its way to his bed. 

The dim light of dawn is just starting to creep over the camp, and the world is soft and gray with it. Lavellan's features are gentler in sleep, the hand with the anchor on it curled loosely between them. His mouth is slack, his eyelids flickering with his dreams, and this close Dorian can pick out the freckles dusted over his cheeks. 

He looks entirely too vulnerable to be burdened with the future of Thedas. Dorian's heart aches just looking at him.

He should leave. This is—this is _too_ personal. They’re not … they're not here yet. He shouldn't be seeing this.

He eases back slightly, leans onto his elbow and reaches up to slide Lavellan's arm off his side.

Lavellan's eyes open, half-lidded but focused, and all Dorian’s clever words catch in his throat as he sits up, easy grace in the line of his spine. He doesn't move his arm from Dorian's grasp, and his eyes never leave Dorian's face, and the air between them is charged again, practically crackling. He only realizes he's licked his lips when Lavellan's tongue peeks out of his mouth and mirrors the motion. 

Dorian's shifted to his knees and leaning in before he quite realizes what he's doing, but he's too far along to stop now. 

Their lips touch and Lavellan's mouth opens, ready invitation where Dorian hadn't even quite expected welcome. There's a hand stroking thought his hair and another sliding down his side and he has a sudden flash of insight—whatever the mixed messages he's been receiving verbally, Lavellan is not at all shy in the physicality of his affections. And given the insistent tongue in his mouth, it's highly unlikely he's the man's first _anything_ in the ways that might matter. 

All thoughts of second guesses evaporate in the heat that snakes through his limbs. He falls into the kiss, chasing lips and tongue and practically crawling into Lavellan's lap because _Maker_ he's missed this, missed the warmth and sliding wetness of mouths, the low pull in his gut, the feel of another man's hands on him, another man's thighs pressed against his own. Lavellan hums a pleased little moan into his skin and Dorian feels something between his shoulder blades unknit itself, licks a line down that tattooed neck to the sweet sound of stuttering breath in his ears and smiles into the hollow of his throat. The grip in his hair is tight to just shy of pain and it's _perfect_ , the knee pressed into the side of his thigh, the callused fingertips sneaking under his nightshirt, the blazing heat at Lavellan's center grinding up into him, perfect, _yes_ , this is exactly what he wants all of this, he wants—

Something snaps outside, loud and jarring, and Sera's string of curses afterward are enough to bring him entirely back to himself and let his more rational brain take over. They're in a _tent_. There are people they know just feet away and while he's beginning to think a few of them might turn out to be trustworthy he's not really looking to put on a show for them. It's a miracle Cole's not here to make everything as terrible as possible. Also, ravaging the Inquisitor at the first hint of physical affection is not exactly the first foray into more … primal activities he'd been aiming for. It's unlikely to get him anywhere he wants to be, afterward. And again, _tent_. If they _are_ going to end up in bed together, there are a myriad more comfortable locations for it. Almost anywhere with solid walls, in fact, would probably be preferable. 

Lavellan definitely looks as though he's been ravaged—eyes wide and dark, clothes askew, mouth red and hair even more in disarray than usual. But the hand in Dorian's hair has gentled, the other spread wide over his ribs with soothing pressure, as if he's a startled deer that needs calming. He's almost irritated at that, except that those lips are still smiling, and when Lavellan moves it is only to shift them both more upright, still pressed together from hip to shoulder. 

“I've been wondering when you were going to do that,” Lavellan murmurs, and there's a slyness to the flickering of his eyelashes and the quivering in his ears that sets everything Dorian thought he knew about this situation on its head. He'd _planned_ this. He'd arranged the watch rotation, pushed the argument with Sera and let Cassandra's desire for order take care of the rest. 

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.” He does at least manage to keep the surprise out of his voice, but he can't stop the line of thought that is searching furiously through his memories now, for some glint, some clue. How long has this been going on, exactly? He'd thought things changed between them in the still-dusty lower library but perhaps it'd been before that, perhaps—

Lavellan shrugs. “It was interesting to watch,” he says, and there's that look in his eyes again, the one he'd had when he said _I've never met anyone quite like you, Dorian_. Like he's putting together a puzzle, and Dorian's pieces don't match up.

He leans in for another kiss, slow and purposeful, and Dorian almost wishes he wouldn't, he thinks he might rather need his brain in this moment, but it feels so good he doesn't want it to stop either. 

“You're going to be the death of me,” he murmurs against those lips as Lavellan pulls away. He gets a satisfied smile and a quick squeeze of his thigh for his trouble.

“Hopefully not today,” Lavellan says as he straightens his tunic and paws at his hair, “But I can probably better your chances by rescuing our breakfast from Sera's tender mercies.” 

“Maker preserve us,” Dorian quips as Lavellan ducks out into the waking world. For a moment he feels that separation keenly—night and day, private and public, to have and to have not. But Lavellan is good at surprising him. Perhaps, just perhaps, it could be different this time. It's a curl around his heart, bright as magic, tender as new leaves in spring. 

_And in His Word became all that might be,_ he chants inside the silence of his own skull. _Dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also posting bits of the series this belongs to [on tumblr](http://imaginaryelle.tumblr.com/), along with art and headcanons, and will probably post there before updating the works here.


End file.
